


A Tiger in a Field of Flowers

by fabricdragon



Series: A Tiger in a Field of Flowers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allergies, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Flowers, Kidnapping, Language of Flowers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Secrets, Tags May Change, Threats, flower shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-08 10:38:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14103552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Moriarty is supposed to be dead, but is he? Colonel Sebastian Moran (former SAS now MI6)  has just the bad luck to be assigned to find out...post canon... this is NOT a "flower shop AU" but  does involve one of the main characters running a flower shop.4 prompts: Sebastian, flowers, kidnapping, allergies.The story could end at chapter 5.Chapter 6 is the end of their time in America, and the next story arc will be a bit different, so I ended it there. The story picks up in part 3 "A Tiger In An English Garden"





	1. The Assignment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).



Colonel Moran looked over his new employers: _Intelligence people the lot of them–not a one with military experience, I’d wager._

“Colonel,” the sole woman– _subtly expensive clothes and genuine pearl necklace_ –began politely, “you come highly recommended.”

“I would hope so, Ma’am,” he nodded. “If possible, I would prefer to get to the mission briefing without small talk.”

She gave him an approving smile, “Good.”

One of the men– _prissy-looking fellow in a vest_ –cleared his throat. “You are familiar with the nature of security clearances from your work for MI6. Let me simply state clearly that this is need-to-know, and the ONLY person outside of this room that is cleared for any of it would be the head of MI6 himself–and that only if absolutely needed–is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, Mister…?”

“We are known only by our code names, Colonel–and rarely that. Please sit down.” The man slid a file folder across the table at him. “That is your mission.”

He looked over the file in increasing confusion. _This guy was famous–famously dead. After a few pages it started making sense–kind of._ “So he really was Jim Moriarty? Not Richard Brook?”

“Richard Brook was simply a dig at ‘Reichenbach’–the case that made Sherlock Holmes famous,” the prissy man said with his lips pressed together in distaste. “We believed he had shot himself on the roof until the report of his being seen…”

“According to this, there was no autopsy.”

“His death was witnessed.” Prissy Vest Fellow sighed and looked even less happy. “I was busy with other matters, and the people who handled it did not verify that the body retrieved from the roof was him. He was cremated quickly and the only verification was a visual identification of a body with a ruined face from a gunshot. It was not until later that Sherlock Holmes informed us that the man he had seen shoot himself had NO damage to the front of his face.”

“Ah,” Sebastian nodded. He waved at the file. “Do you want me to kill him, or retrieve him?”

The other man– _bland face, bland suit_ –spoke up, “It would be preferred if it could be verified that he is, in fact, Jim Moriarty.”

“Retrieve him, right,” Sebastian sighed. “Nothing in this file indicates personal combat skills.”

“To the best of our knowledge,” Pearl Lady stated, “he had none.”

“Then it should be simple enough.”

Prissy Vest Fellow pursed his lips. “Colonel… he is highly intelligent and extremely difficult to predict: do not take him lightly.”

Moran simply looked calmly back. “It will, of course, be more difficult to capture him alive than to simply shoot him. Do I have authorization to kill him if capture becomes difficult?”

The Bland Man made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. “I would prefer not.”

Pearl Lady tapped her pen on the table lightly. “Difficult? No. You shall kill him as a last resort only.”

“How much time do I have?”

“We are concerned,” Prissy Vest Fellow said, “with what he has been up to during the time no one knew to watch him. We would prefer he was retrieved with some priority. In addition…” his hands fidgeted slightly, “it has always seemed as though he has inside information–perhaps a mole; for that reason, the knowledge that he has been seen has been kept extremely close.”

Pearl Lady nodded, “The longer you take, the more risk there is that he would become aware of this.”

Sebastian nodded. He glanced down at the file. “What if this ISN’T him? The identification was tenuous.”

They all looked at each other; finally, the Bland Man said, “If you can determine that–if you are certain–and he hasn’t seen too much, then simply report back; otherwise, he will have to be removed for security.”

Sebastian intensely disliked killing civilians, but he understood the security concerns. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

“With the added complication that we technically do not have the authority to do ANY of this on American soil.”

The unspoken “so don’t get caught” was very clear.

A few hours later, he was on a plane for America to make contact with the CIA officer who had spotted the man in Madison, Wisconsin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian is not cut out for this...

Sebastian Moran hated CIA agents to the core of his being. He had somehow managed to forget that–having only dealt with a few in-country–but five minutes with this fellow in New York cemented it. _If the rest of his agency hadn’t had him shot by now, then they all must be horrible._

After he’d gotten a cup of coffee–he’d been warned against American tea–he decided that it was JUST possible that they did hate him, and couldn’t shoot him, and that’s why he had been out in The Middle Of Nowhere, Wisconsin in the first place. Still… his estimation on the likelihood that this was actually Jim Moriarty went down considerably.

After he was on a plane to Wisconsin, he reluctantly concluded that it actually was MORE likely this was Moriarty: _There being no justice in the world, the guy would get credit for finding him and get a promotion or something._

After a transfer of planes and identities in Chicago, Colonel Sebastian Moran–SAS, MI6, SIS–checked into the hotel in Madison as Sebastian Morris, English businessman. _What WERE they thinking, trying to provide me with an American cover identity? I shouldn’t have had to argue for an English identity at all: it’s not like I can completely lose my accent overnight._ The hotel was pleasant enough. Sebastian had planned to get right to work, but the time difference and time on the plane had made him a bit less than alert, so he studied the city map and watched the television until he could sleep.

First thing in the morning, he started a walk-around of Madison. The suspected Moriarty had been seen near the University, so he started there, and wandered around what they claimed were historic sites– _barely worth an antique store’s time, really._ Madison did seem to have a decent array of restaurants, much to his shock.

He reported in and got a politely-coded message about the urgency of his mission–from the phrasing, probably from Bland Man–that Sebastian translated in his head to “We expected you to have magically found a man who might not actually exist, and even if he does might not be in this city anymore, by now.” _Sigh. Bureaucrats._

He planned to spend the next day looking around for museums and galleries. Jim Moriarty had a bit of a connection to art and art forgery, so if he was here he might be found around art. _How many decent art galleries or museums could there be in some city in Wisconsin, anyway?_

…

 _A lot._ The answer was: a lot.

Madison, Wisconsin was apparently a thriving art center with several museums and a lot of independent galleries. Sebastian revised his estimate of Jim Moriarty being anywhere near here upwards again.

Three days later he reported in that it seemed likely that, IF Moriarty was actually alive, this wasn’t as unlikely a location as it may have first seemed, but that so far he hadn’t picked up any obvious traces. He received a reply that he thought must have come from Prissy Vest Man to keep his wits about him and keep looking, and a follow up message from what MUST have been Pearl Lady about his expenses and the amount of time this was taking.

Sebastian developed a headache.

_A population of more than a quarter million people and they expected me to find one man–who might not be here at all, or might have only been in town temporarily–in under a week?_

He sent back a terse commentary on the realities of finding one man in this city–while not damaging any civilians or drawing attention to himself–which he managed to restrain himself from turning into a scorching tirade with great effort. Without waiting for a reply, he left the hotel to head to a Persian restaurant that had been highly recommended.

He hadn’t expected anyplace in Wisconsin to have a decent Persian restaurant–or any foreign restaurants, really–but apparently State Street was just full of artsy, Soho-like places, including restaurants. The Persian place turned out to be run by actual Iranian immigrants, and a few words of polite Farsi got him broad smiles and a proper dish of salted lemon…

“Oh, you made FRIENDS…” laughed a voice as he was just starting into possibly the best lamb he’d had since leaving Pakistan.

“Apparently,” he said–then looked up and almost choked. The purely American voice belonged to a man who looked remarkably like Jim Moriarty.

The man tilted his head slightly. “Are you alright?”

Sebastian scrambled to recover. “Wow… Sorry, you look… a lot like my sister’s ex-boyfriend.”

He blinked a few times, “I do?”

“Well…” Sebastian allowed, “not actually so much looking at you straight on, just… for a moment…”

He smiled slightly, “English?”

“Yes… I guess it’s obvious.” Sebastian forced a smile.

“May I join you?”

“…certainly? Sebastian Morris… and you are?”

“James Steersman,” he said cheerfully and sat down. The waitress came by and slowly and carefully pronounced “How are you today?” in Farsi. He replied in somewhat clumsy Farsi, “I am well, thank you!” and then in English, “Although that’s a lie: actually, I’m not well, I have a bit of a stomach ache… What’s good?”

Sebastian commented, “Anything with mint, usually.”

“Then can I have a mint tea with my usual?” James asked.

She smiled and said, “Certainly,” and went off.

“You’re learning Farsi?” he asked the man who looked like Jim and was called James and sounded American.

“Yes. Trying to, anyway. You know Farsi?”

 _Should never have used it. Damn, I wasn’t prepared for undercover work–I’m a sniper…_ Sebastian tried for what he thought might be a reasonable answer, “Well, lots of people speak the more common languages–I thought learning something a bit unusual might help in business.”

“Oh, I thought it was from the military?”

“What… makes you think I’m military?”

“Your posture, for one thing.”

“Boarding school,” Sebastian nodded solemnly. “Big on posture.”

“Oh?”

Sebastian was saved from answering by the arrival of the mint tea and a plate of little tasty things.

“You two share!” the waitress smiled as she put down the platter.

“Thank you,” they both said and then James laughed. “You really must have made an impression.”

“Um.” Sebastian cleared his throat. “So… you must eat here often.”

“Well, yes… I provide the table flowers.”

Sebastian looked in puzzlement at the small bouquet on the table. “What?”

“I run the flower shop down the street.”

…

James was… pleasant company. Sebastian once again reminded himself that his job might involve shooting the man, but… he clearly wasn’t Jim Moriarty.

“Want to come over to my shop and look around?” James asked abruptly as they were leaving the restaurant.

“The flower shop? Wouldn’t it be closed?”

“I own it, and I live above it,” James laughed. “I thought…” He blushed faintly and looked aside. “Silly of me, really.”

 _If you weren’t a job, yeah…_ but then, he did need to gather intelligence… “Actually… well… maybe a cup of coffee?”

James smiled up at him. “Not tea?”

“I was warned about American tea.”

James laughed cheerfully and linked arms with him, “I suppose it hasn’t been any good since that little tiff in Boston Harbor…”

The flower shop was, indeed, just down the street. The front window was a display of books and apothecary shelves, with vines snaking around between beakers and books, potted plants, and… _that was an antique microscope on that table._

The hanging sign said “Rappacini’s Garden”, and in old-fashioned gold lettering on the door it said, “Purveyors of the Beautiful and Unusual”.

James let them in through the shop. “The apartment can be gotten to from the outside stairs, but I wanted to check on a few things anyway…”

“This is… different.” Sebastian looked around thoughtfully. All the florists he’d been in before had pretty much the same things: vase, carnations, roses, and filler; _this place, though…_ there was a sort of mini green house full of live ferns, and a display of potted orchids that took his breath away. “A lot of live plants…”

“All the cut stems are in the refrigerators, of course,” James nodded as he walked over and turned on the lights in one of the refrigerators: it was full of flowers Sebastian had never seen in a florists.

“Are those…?” They looked like his grandmothers garden.

Jim called over his shoulder as he adjusted things in another refrigerator, “That one is mostly garden-type flowers: foxgloves, bleeding hearts, snapdragons, we just got in some columbines, and if you look down we have violets.”

“I’ve never seen a florist with real violets…” Memories of childhood threatened to overwhelm him. He was startled when James hand touched his arm gently.

“You need to wash your hands: foxglove and aconite are dangerously toxic.” James nodded to the label on the vase they were in that had a skull-and-crossbones on it. James turned off the lights and led him to the back.

“They ARE? Grandmother had them in her garden…”

“Amazing how many common garden plants are dangerous,” James smiled in a distant fashion. “It’s always the ordinary things right under your nose that get overlooked–people expect the exotics to be dangerous.”

James supervised while he washed his hands off in the sink in back. It was a drastic change from the flower shop up front–almost sterile, with stainless steel and sealed surfaces.

“This is… different.”

“We use a lot of water, and have to submerge cut stems quickly, so everything has to be sealed and drain,” he pointed to the drains located strategically, “and bacteria and fungus are the enemy in this business–can take days off the life of a cut plant or kill your live plants.”

“That… makes sense.” Sebastian looked around again. _If I have to kill anyone, this is the place for it: he even has bleach on hand._

“We have the bigger refrigerators in the basement, of course,” James smiled. “I keep the ordinary things–the mass-market carnations and roses–down there, but that’s for the big customers, like when they have a catered event at the University or one of the museums.” He made a face. “Boring.” Then he walked away to a small office. “Hold on, I keep the coffee maker in here so it won’t be near the plants.”

“Makes sense, if some are toxic.”

“Oh, yes. You have to be ever-so-careful, but the fact that I have… unusual things… is my niche.”

Sebastian sat there contemplating while James worked in the other room. The smell of coffee made a nice change to the faint smell of whatever it was in flower shops that wasn’t ‘flowers’: _dying plants,_ he supposed, _stripped leaves and things._

_It would be safer to kill him. He was cute and obviously American–not Moriarty–and it would be simpler…_

James came out with a plate of little biscuits and chocolate-dipped strawberries, along with two mugs of coffee. “Do you need cream?”

“Yes, please, if you have it, and sugar.” Sebastian nodded, “I can take it black but I prefer it sweet.”

James smiled, “That sounds like an innuendo.”

“Um…” Sebastian adulterated his coffee until it was a pale tan. “I don’t think I know you well enough.”

James cocked his head and sipped his coffee–black–“What would you like to know?”

“It’s an unusual flower shop: tell me about it? What made you get into… poisonous plants? And garden plants…”

“Oh, I’m a big fan of classical literature…” James pushed the plate of treats over at him. “Alice in Wonderland and the flower garden, all the formal gardens in English literature, Agatha Christie–especially Miss Marple–murder mysteries…” Sebastian ate a biscuit out of politeness–it was stale and a bit bitter.

“And that has to do with… this?”

“All those lovely, deadly flowers…” James smiled and somehow he didn’t seem quite so cute anymore. “Right under everyone’s nose. Agatha Christie had several people murdered using aconite… of course, Rappaccini’s garden as well…”

“Is that a reference to something?” Sebastian felt a bit dizzy. _Well, it was rather warm in here._

“Do you need to take off your jacket? You look flushed?”

“It’s a bit warm,” Sebastian admitted. He took off his jacket and felt better. “So, what’s that from? Rappaccini?”

“A tale about a scientist who breeds and creates deadly plants–and made his own daughter into a Poison Maid… she was beautiful, but deadly poison.”

“Oh…” Sebastian finished off his coffee, feeling quite tired.

“Let me get you another cup.” James took his mug and walked back into the office.

Sebastian would have to report in, and then… well… safer if the fellow died… but clearly not tonight: tired as he was, he would make a mistake. He ate another biscuit for the sugar content.

James came back with a coffee and Sebastian sipped at it black. “Sorry, must have overdone it today: I feel so tired.”

“Mmm…” James nodded. “Did you have another cookie?”

“Yes…” _Damn, I can barely keep my eyes open._

“That’s good… People always think the drugs will be in the coffee, but it’s so hard to drug hot drinks.”

Sebastian felt like he should be concerned, but he could barely open his eyes.

“It’s always the things right in front of you that people overlook… like garden plants, cookies… me…”

Sebastian’s last thought was that James seemed to have developed an Irish accent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are in fact a lot of Iranian immigrants in Madison, and at least one restaurant near State Street, but i invented this one (and the flower shop)  
> many common garden plants are deadly toxins.  
> and Rappaccini's Daughter was one of my favorite short stories growing up...(and yes, i am a murder mystery fan... Mrs Pollifax too!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heads up that this is a cold, brutal chapter.
> 
> posting early for Mickie

Sebastian heard voices and woke up. His head was spinning, and there was a taste in his mouth that defied description, but he was alive. He lay still and started to take inventory of his condition.

“Wake up, idiot,” a female voice– _English_ –said, accompanied by a sharp nudge in his ribs; it hurt, but the motion of his body told him that his hands and legs were free.

“He’s been drugged, Lila, give him a break.”

“He’s supposed to be competent,” a woman’s voice sneered–Lila, he supposed.

Sebastian contemplated replying, then remembered his anti-interrogation training and kept playing dead.

“He’s a sniper,” an amused male voice replied, “not a spy. He’s not trained to get that close.”

James voice, American accent back in place firmly: “Then why did you send him?” His voice sounded strained.

Sebastian risked a quick glance from beneath shuttered eyes. James was being held down, bent double on the floor, legs cuffed together, and wrists bound behind his back– _he wasn’t gagged or blindfolded, though_. There were two pairs of tactical black pants and boots; Sebastian recognized the brand–standard MI6 equipment–although others used it too, still it was British.

Sebastian was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid: _they were MI6, a paired team of professionals._ He had wondered about being sent in alone, but thought it was due to the leak… No, he was a distraction– _disposable._

“So you’d be looking that way and miss us,” the man’s voice answered. “Now we find out if you ARE Moriarty or not.”

 _Got it in one._ Sebastian began to feel a familiar fury building up. _Another damn superior willing to throw me under the bus to get what he wanted–THEY wanted._

“I’m not. I used to work for him as his body double but I don’t know anything, and as far as I know he died. I took my money and went back home.” James was panting: the position he was in uncomfortable as hell–Sebastian knew from experience.

“We’ll see.” The woman booted Sebastian’s ribs again and walked away. There was a noise of someone getting into a case.

“I don’t know anything!” James voice went up into a panicked register.

“Maybe you don’t,” the man allowed, “but if you aren’t Jim Moriarty then you’ll talk–and if you are? Well… he’s lethally allergic to this stuff–it’s why Holmes sent it.”

They uncuffed James’ hands and Sebastian saw a needle in the man’s hand just before it turned into a very unequal three-way fight. He took advantage of the distraction to roll over and get his balance and his feet under him.

Whatever he’d been dosed with was nasty, but he’d been through worse. The fight–and distraction away from Sebastian–was over quickly. The man was injecting something into James while the woman sneered and held the gun. Sebastian lashed out hard and fast with a kick to the woman’s knee–he heard it crunch; she made a short, high noise and went down, her gun hand professionally held aside as she caught herself with her other arm.

She was a professional top-flight pro, but, while he might be a lousy spy, when it came to a fight Sebastian was in his element: he broke her arm as he took the pistol out of her hand.

The man had been busy with the needle and didn’t have a gun out. He turned to deal with Sebastian and James pulled the man’s boot knife and stabbed him in the leg with it– _not a great shot, but James didn’t have the angle for it; it distracted him enough, though…_ Sebastian backed away and held the gun on them, watching them both.

“So were the orders to kill me too as part of clean up? Or was it just expected that I’d die?”

“Colonel–” the man started to say something but he turned and tried to stop James as James used the knife to cut the ties on his legs.

Sebastian shot the man low in the back and regretted it as the sound was intolerable in the echoing room. Sebastian glanced around: _they were in another room, much like the back flower workroom, but… surrounded with refrigerators full of cut roses and carnations, and more work tables–the basement, then._

“What? Why?!” the woman gasped at him from the floor and tried to pull away.

“Knife?” Sebastian asked James as he nodded toward the woman.

James stood up unsteadily and looked at him for a moment; he shrugged, flipped the knife in his hand, stepped forward, and handed it to him. Sebastian pushed her down into the tiles next to a drain and prepared to cut her throat.

James said, “Wait,” and grabbed a plastic bag.

“What?”

“Hold it over her throat or the spray gets everywhere. I can hose the place down, but really–why bother?” The Irish accent was creeping back into his voice.

Sebastian grinned and did as he suggested: it worked beautifully, all the blood going down into the tiles and the drains.

The man on the floor was moaning, but Jim just walked around him to a work table and got into the drawer. Sebastian looked around: he’d been on the floor, but… there was a rolled up towel that had been under his neck–he doubted those two had put it there–and his jacket, belt, and shoes were over on a chair, along with his wallet and weapons…

“Can you cuff the bastard?” James said. Sebastian looked over in time to see him jab an Epi injector into his leg.

 _They knew Moriarty was lethally allergic_ … _Right…_ He walked over slowly and put the cuffs they’d had on James onto the man’s wrists. He was pale and shaking– _shock_ –and looked up in confusion at Sebastian.

“Not that I object, mind you,” James said calmly, although his voice shook a bit, “but weren’t they on your side?”

“Apparently not.” Sebastian looked over at him. “What were YOU planning on doing with me?”

“Hadn’t made up my mind yet,” he said calmly, getting out some pills and a bottle of water. “Find out how much you’d reported in already–how much they knew–and if I was right about who sent you, to start with.”

He kept the gun in his hand, a steadying feeling of familiar metal. “Bunch of suits who didn’t tell me anything: bland guy, a woman in pearls–old money, I think–and a prissy guy in a vest.” He frowned, “They said they were playing it close because they had a suspected leak.”

“Oh, they did… I knew you were coming.” He smiled, “I’ve been out of the business too long: I didn’t suspect anything beyond that until I talked to you–you weren’t prepared enough.” He sighed and looked down at the body of the woman and over at the man. “Suspected too late. I’ve gotten soft in my retirement.” He looked back up at Sebastian, unconcerned about the gun, “So…do you know what got them after me again after all this time?”

“CIA agent spotted you when he was dropping off something at the local FBI office in Madison–you were near the University.” Sebastian jerked his head at the man, “He’s still alive–ask him. I was the sacrificial goat, apparently.”

James walked over to him and looked down. “One of the Iceman’s special agents, are you? I rather thought I wouldn’t have to deal with your lot again…”

“Go… to...” the man was rasping out when James made a shushing noise at him.

“Don’t waste your breath.” He stood there looking down at him and then up at Sebastian, “Well, you can’t let him live, not now…”

“No…”

James’ voice was rough and he was panting slightly. “You’ll have to decide for yourself if you want my help cleaning up or you plan on shooting me and trying your own luck at it, but Mycroft Holmes–that’s your prissy man in a vest–won’t be very likely to believe any cover up.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, “Might forgive you if you delivered my body; might not.”

“Lethal allergy, he said.”

“Yup.”

“You need a hospital, not just an epi pen.”

“Yes. Not here in Madison: they’ll be watching for that… I’ll have to get to either covert medical or a hospital well out of town…”

Sebastian thought about it. “I’ll help you get to medical. If you survive, well… we’ll talk. If not? You killed those two, and I tried to keep you alive for retrieval, and… too bad.”

“I knew I liked you…” Jim wheezed a bit. “Practical man…”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Cut his throat and shove them both in the fridge with the solid front–none of my staff will touch it, you can lock that one if you like. I’m calling a friend: you’ll talk to them and get me to medical… then come back here and clean up.” James called someone on the phone, muttering “Answer, damn it...”

Sebastian cut the man’s throat and shoved them both into the fridge that DIDN’T have the glass fronted door.

He’d never appreciated how well set up a florist shop was for a murder before…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> medical intervention, and time to think...

Jim handed Sebastian the phone, a thumb drive, and a note.

“Hello?” Sebastian said into the phone. “I’m a… friend of James’, and he needs medical…”

An American voice, female, answered, “How bad?”

Sebastian glanced at the note and shrugged. “Anaphylaxis. He said to tell you some of his old friends caught up to him. Also he gave himself an epi injection and some pills–he didn’t say to tell you that, but he did it.”

“Fuck. Can you drive him?”

“Uh… I thought no cars were allowed?”

“Go out back, there’s a garage attached that goes onto a back alley for deliveries. He has a van and probably a car… I’ll meet you at the clinic.” She gave him an address and hung up.

James was keeping control pretty admirably, but his lips were turning blue and he was tilting his head back to breathe. Sebastian cursed once vehemently and picked him up. “Garage?”

James pointed and Sebastian carried him. As Sebastian got him into the car–not the van with the logo on it–he found that Jim had apparently entered the address into his phone: the GPS started giving directions. Sebastian followed the directions to find himself arriving at a veterinary clinic; James was barely conscious by then.

Standing in the light from the open door was a blonde woman in pajamas with a white coat over them. She waved him in hurriedly and closed the door after them.

“Veterinarian?” Sebastian was starting to ask when another woman grabbed his arm, almost threw him into a surgical suite– _Ok, the surgery bed looked more like a metal table with a pad on it_ –and barked “On the table!” in a military tone that hit Sebastian right in the habits. He put James on the table and stepped back.

The two women worked like a trained military team, cutting off his clothing, getting an IV line in place, and doing other things that looked meaningful.

“One Epi injection?” the first woman asked him.

“I only saw one.”

“You said pills?”

“Yes, unknown content, and a few sips from a bottle of water.”

“Probably antihistamines; idiot should have taken them sublingually,” the second woman snapped.

“Did he give you anything for us?” the blonde sounded worried.

“Uh, thumb drive I guess? And this note… and I have his phone?”

“Thumb drive into that laptop,” the first woman said as she was… she was intubating him rather professionally. “Do you know what he got exposed to?”

“Injection of something they said would either kill him or make him talk…”

“Great,” the second woman said–Sebastian labeled her ‘Brown’ for her dark hair, which made the first woman ‘Blonde’, he supposed–“probably one of the anesthesia drugs or hypnotics he’s allergic to.”

“Can… Is there anything I can do or am I in the way?”

“Military?”

 _How did they all know?_ “Yes.”

“Can you be useful elsewhere?”

 _Fuck it._ Sebastian decided to just say it: “I can clean up the bodies of the people who did this.”

Brown snorted, “Probably for the best: he has a couple little civilians working in the shop.”

“Yeah, he did say it needed to be cleaned up.”

“Go clean it up, then. Go up to his apartment and get a change of clothes, too.” Brown was doing something with the IV line while Blonde went over and was paging through the computer–probably the thumb drive contents.

Sebastian started to go and then paused. “Is he going to die?”

“No,” said Blonde.

“Maybe,” said Brown.

He caught Brown’s eyes, “If he dies, I’ll need the body as part of the cover-up.”

Blonde was biting her lip and going back to work–doing something with what looked like an EKG–but Brown just nodded, “I’ll call his phone if he dies; otherwise, I’ll be busy.”

Sebastian let the GPS tell him how to get back.

He let himself into the basement and looked around at the blood: most hadn’t even had time to dry. He looked around carefully and found the exhaust fan switch. _It really was admirably well set up for a murder._ He moved all the soft goods out of the way and uncoiled a hose from the wall; there were wellies stacked next to it: none were his size, but he managed to wedge his feet into a pair. He hosed down the whole basement, taking care to start high on the walls and the refrigerators and move down, ending at the drains. After a moment’s thought, he carefully aimed under the work tables, too–then he saw the cleaning attachments and smiled. A few parts soap in the attachment, put it on the hose, and he sprayed everything down again with soapy water, then again with bleach solution. He poured the last of the bleach down the drains.

He found a squeegee and wiped down all the refrigerators carefully–the army did teach you how to clean, at least. He looked around: clean, fresh, and it would all be dry by morning. He put a padlock on the fridge with the bodies in it and cleaned himself up again. He retrieved his clothes, put the Wellingtons back in place, and went upstairs. The keys had been pulled out of James’ pocket by the two MI6 agents, and he let himself in.

It wasn’t quite what he expected.

He’d expected either the kind of luxury you find from a rich criminal on the run, or someplace bare or prepared to leave it all behind–this wasn’t either. It was furnished in old, used furniture–eclectic and a bit dark, but well put together… It suited the shop, actually.

There was a tea set out that had Alice in Wonderland characters on it, and books scattered here and there… lots of blankets… it looked cozy.

Sebastian moved through to the bedroom. A wrought iron bed with a quilt on it–the quilt had botanical print fabric, and embroidery, all over it. There was no sign that James–Jim Moriarty–was up to anything beyond running a flower shop. _Alright, a slightly creepy flower shop._ Sebastian opened drawers and closets until he could assemble a complete change of clothes.

After he did that, he sat down and considered his mission. He was supposed to retrieve Jim Moriarty–it was pretty well certain this was, in fact, him. The people who had sent him to do so–woefully unprepared and set up to fail–had also sent the MI6 people who treated him with disdain… _Well, SHE did_ , Sebastian tried to be fair, _he was more neutral._

He should report in, blame their deaths on James–or on not recognizing them as MI6, more likely–and have him retrieved… or kill him and ship his body back.

Sebastian sighed and leaned back on the sofa. _Should have let him die in the basement_. He was used to nice, clean kills–or maybe a physical interrogation–but…

He got up and looked into James’ fridge: no bodies, no flowers, a bunch of apples, and some bottles of odd sodas; he grabbed the pomegranate soda and sat back down.

He wasn’t used to getting close: the agent had been spot-on with that. He’d never had to kill someone he’d had a pleasant dinner with before… _I probably could have managed a nice, clean kill, but not… not watching him turn blue and wheeze…_

He forced his mind to another topic.

Three people he had met–and an unknown number in addition–had sent him on this assignment KNOWING that he was bait–and didn’t bother to even tell HIM. He understood the risk of a leak, but if he’d known he was bait, it would have been….

Well, he would have been insulted, probably, but you follow orders.

And two of them had been pressuring him to work faster, been harassing him…

Sebastian paused and turned it over in his mind: Prissy Vest Guy had repeatedly told him it was a tougher assignment than it looked–that Jim was dangerous and cunning. Jim WAS more dangerous than he’d thought, especially the insanely good accent. So Prissy Vest Guy–who James said was Mycroft Holmes, and _hadn’t that MI6 guy said Holmes sent the drug_?–had been at least trying to warn him, but it was the other two that were harassing him, pressuring him for speed and expenses…

 _Because they wanted to leak his location_. Sebastian swore vehemently. They were contacting him and pushing him to pull off the impossible, either to make him make a mistake–be more obvious–or to give their mole more chances to get the information that he was here…

He made a cup of coffee–James had a travel mug, thankfully–and took off back to the veterinarian’s. It was almost dawn, and he didn’t want to be leaving this building in daylight.


	5. Chapter 5

He ended up having to call the ‘last phone number dialed’ on James’ phone to get someone to let him in–there was a sign on the door saying that due to a family emergency they were closed today.

“Closing today?” he said to Brown.

“As much as possible. We have a couple of clients we have to see, but Lori will see them.”

“The blonde lady?” he asked as they walked through the front door this time–into a perfectly ordinary veterinarian waiting room.

“No, our vet tech.” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know who you called, do you?”

Sebastian sighed, “I assume he’s alive?”

“Yeah, stabilized nicely,” she nodded. “He’ll need to be observed with medical support today. So, who are you and how much do you actually know?”

A wry smile escaped him. “I’m the sacrificial goat.”

She just tilted her head and looked at him. “I want answers, but… sometimes it’s healthier to not get them; I’ll let James figure it out.” She let them back into the operating room.

James was trying to get up off the table, rasping something about his back hurting. He was so rough sounding that Sebastian’s throat started to hurt.

“Yeah, flat metal tables suck,” Sebastian nodded. “Do you have someplace else to put him?”

Blonde looked worried. “Our apartment upstairs, but he can’t walk yet.”

Sebastian just sighed and scooped him up off the table; James squeaked in surprise. “I carried him into the car and into here, I can carry him upstairs. Can one of you get the bag of his clothes I packed?”

Blonde looked relieved–so did Brown, although it was tinged with a sort of amusement–and they showed him upstairs.

Sebastian looked around: photos of the two of them together; one of the two of them kissing; one of Brown in a military uniform; a photo of Blonde, much younger, in civilian gear someplace that looked poor. They had a recliner that looked like someone had attempted to kill it by piling blankets on it until it suffocated; on top of the blankets was a rather dubious-looking cat–both in the sense that it was ratty and missing half an ear and in the sense that it was looking at him dubiously.

Brown followed the direction of his eyes. “Yeah, a recliner would be best–keep his head up a bit.” She made cooing noises at the cat, which uncoiled itself and stretched slowly; it was very thin and bony.

“Is… the cat okay?” Sebastian frowned at it. “He looks too thin…”

“You like cats?” Blonde asked while she moved most of the blankets. Brown spread one out over the recliner and smoothed it out.

“I like most animals.”

“Zephyr is almost twenty-one years old, so he’s bony and all–he also gets to sleep where he wants and eat whatever he wants,” Brown nodded, “unless it’s really bad for him.”

“That’s old for anything but a Siamese, isn’t it?”

“Old for a meezer, too… but yes.” Blonde piled the rest of the blankets up on the sofa and carefully moved the cat onto them. He sat up stiffly and looked… more dubious. “Here you go, James.”

Sebastian put him down into the recliner, only now thinking about how unresisting he’d been. _Probably still pretty weak._ “Comfortable?”

James nodded slowly, looking at Sebastian with what he suspected was confusion.

“We need to talk, or rather, I need to talk and I guess you need to nod or write stuff down and… sip juice?” Sebastian looked up at the two women.

“Can you stay with him?” Blonde asked.

“For the moment? Sure. For the day? That kind of depends on what I have to do with the situation–which is what I need to talk to him about.”

Brown went to the fridge and came back with a glass of ice water with a lemon slice in it. “Here.” She handed it to Sebastian. “Keep him sipping it.” Then she looked at James. “Who IS he and how much does he know?”

James glared at her and waved at his throat. Blonde rummaged around until she found a pad of paper and a pen. “Here.”

James scribbled on it and handed it to Brown. Her eyebrows went up and she looked at Sebastian very oddly.

“What?” Sebastian sighed.

“You were trying to kill him? Then why did you bring him here?”

“I WASN’T trying to kill him… technically.” Sebastian sighed again, “Like I said, I was set up…” He glanced at the two women. “I was sent to find out if he was… someone, and retrieve him if so.” He laughed shortly. “Except it turns out I was just being used to find him, so the two people who showed up after could kill him.”

James was watching him thoughtfully and mouthed, “Retrieve?”

“The assignment was to find out if you were actually alive, and if so retrieve you–killing you as an absolute last resort only. I asked for clarification and they said if it was just a false identification–you just looked like him–and you didn’t know anything then… report in and let you go on your way; otherwise, clean up the evidence.”

Blonde stared at him. “England… the English government… is sending people to MURDER people who might be American citizens just to ‘clean up’?!”

James laughed and then started coughing. “Poor, sweet summer childe…” he said in a whisper.

Brown frowned. “So if you were after him, why help? We for damn sure aren’t letting you drag him off to England.”

“That’s… complicated.” Sebastian held the glass to James mouth until he sipped at it. “It’s a long story and… like you said, Brown: how much do you really want to know?”

Brown looked pointedly at James. “Zero, but I can’t leave you alone with him if–”

James looked thoughtful and then leaned back in the recliner. He made ‘shoo-ing’ gestures at the two women.

“Are you SURE?” Blonde asked him.

He held out his hand for the pad and pen–Brown gave it back–and he scribbled on it and held it up. “I’m sure. We have to talk cover-up, get out.”

Blonde bit her lip and nodded; Brown just smirked, “Plausible deniability? Like that ever worked?”

“Sometimes it does,” Sebastian commented, “and right now? Even if it all goes to hell, no one can connect you with this–let’s keep it that way.”

She glanced at Blonde and nodded. “We’re going to try to get some naps in between the emergency patients… after we remove any evidence of our overnight patient.”

“So, back here?” Sebastian nodded.

“Maybe, or maybe the cot in the back room downstairs,” she shrugged and went out, closing the door behind her.

Sebastian held the cup of ice water to James lips again. “I never knew you could take an Irishman to the vet,” he said with an attempt at humor.

James looked annoyed at him for a moment and then seemed to relax; he scribbled something and held it out. “Usually you can’t: we bite.”

“I thought THAT was mad dogs and Englishmen?”

James smiled at him with a flash of amusement and Sebastian was reminded of the witty and attractive ‘James Steersman’ he ate dinner with. “And NO James, I refuse to answer to ‘mad dog’–we already had a soldier in my unit who went by that–I’m Tiger, if anything.”

“Tiger?” he wrote on his pad.

“Long story involving military leave, three of my buddies, several other units on leave, and five strippers.”

He sipped his ice water and then wrote out, “I had the impression you were gay? Or was that an act?”

“No act. You… were interesting.” Sebastian looked at him thoughtfully. “I had decided you couldn’t be Moriarty, and was… basically justifying spending time with you and having a coffee–and maybe more–on ‘making sure you didn’t know anything’ before heading back to the hotel to report.”

James winced. “Ow,” he whispered.

“Yeah, if you hadn’t drugged me…” he shrugged. “But apparently I was just bait, and those two would have caught up with you anyway.”

James nodded slowly. “Can you make some tea with honey?” he wrote.

“Should you have hot liquid?”

“Fuck if I know, but honey is good for your throat.”

“There is that.” Sebastian got up and went into their kitchen. After a good long time of trying to figure out how ANYTHING worked–and where they had hidden the utensils–he came back with two mugs.

“I make no guarantees about the quality of this tea,” Sebastian said firmly. “Nothing in there made sense, and they only had bagged tea; they did at least have honey.”

James nodded and handed over the pad. He’d apparently been writing for a bit. Sebastian read it over and stared…

“That’s brilliant.”

“That,” James whispered, “is what I used to do: solve people’s problems.”

“Except… I know you probably hate Prissy Vest Guy more than the others, since he sent the shot, but it was the other two that were pushing me about doing the impossible–he at least tried to warn me you were…”

“Was what?” he whispered over the mug.

“Brilliant–and that I shouldn’t underestimate you just because you had no listed combat skills.”

James smiled faintly. “Myc said that?” he whispered.

“Yeah… and he wasn’t the one bitching me out to hurry up or about how much money this was costing.”

James took the pad back and looked at it. He made a few notes and crossed a few things out; eventually he handed it back. “I’m going to have to sleep,” he whispered.

“I’ll get one of the ladies up here and start dealing with things.”

James gave him a quirked smile and mouthed, “You’re really strange,” at him.

Sebastian looked at him thoughtfully. “Maybe, but if there’s one thing I can’t stand for, it’s betrayal. If they’d told me I was bait, I might have been annoyed, but… if that’s what works? So be it. To have them treat me like that? And that bitch sneering at me? Just the way everyone else in MI6 sneered at me?” Sebastian nodded slowly at the harmless looking man in the recliner. “I’ll burn them to the ground.”

James gave him a crooked smirk. “This looks like the beginning of a beautiful relationship,” he said softly and sipped his tea.

Sebastian laughed, “I’ll provide the funerals you provide the flowers?”

“Deal.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is really two very short chapters put together.

Sebastian went back to the hotel by a combination of driver services, public transit, and walking.

He looked at the paper with the utterly simple and brilliant plan on it. James had put this together based on a discussion they’d had before he passed out–dying of an allergic reaction–and the brief discussion they’d had when they woke up. It was utterly simple, accounted for the condition of the bodies–especially if they weren’t found right away–and stuck fairly close to the truth–except for where it was critically different.

Be Angry–it will make it harder to read your voice, he’d emphasized. Well that wasn’t hard–he WAS angry. He had YEARS of resentment built up, and the last few months had been stacking explosives around the bonfire. This would have been the last straw anyway.

He took a deep breath, looked over the written instructions one last time, and called in. When someone answered–finally–he gave the code for an emergency and waited.

“What seems to be the problem?” That was Prissy Vest Guy’s voice.

“What doesn’t?” Sebastian didn’t have to fake the angry growl in his voice at all. “The entire mission went to hell and I’m covering it up as best as I can, but it’s a mess.” _And it’s YOUR fault,_ he thought angrily. _You and everyone else in that room._

There was a pause and then, “Explain.”

“I found someone who looked like Moriarty–or he found me, not sure which–and was evaluating him. Everything was going PEACHY until two people broke in. One of them had a gun drawn, so James–your Moriarty clone–pulled a gun and shot him, I had no idea what was going on–”

He heard an unhappy hiss on the line and went on. “James went for an alarm console and I figured that no matter WHAT was going on that was bad, so I tackled him and tried to get us both under cover,” he snarled with genuine hatred in his voice, “at which point the other intruder yelled my name and identified herself as MI6.”

“That… is not how anything was supposed to happen.” Prissy Vest man sounded genuinely unhappy, but right now Sebastian didn’t care.

“Yeah? Well, I had to disarm James… and imagine how entirely OVERJOYED I was to find out that my mission was being shot to hell because I’d been LIED to!”

“It… is more complex than that, Colonel.” He sighed. “Please tell me the current situation?”

“Both your MI6 agents are dead, and so is James.”

He heard the sound of a pill bottle rattling. “I see… How did we get from them identifying themselves to…?”

“James turned out to be either a damn good shot or lucky–or maybe he was unlucky–because the male agent died. The female agent–Lila?–got out some kind of shot and dosed James–she was snarling at James AND ME, and said it was a test of some kind–and told me to go piss off and stand guard.” He paused. “And I am DAMN tired of being treated like trash by the agency.”

“Yes, I’m certain,” he said very quietly. “Then?”

“James was babbling–all I got was something about a body double for Moriarty… and the agent told me to check the perimeter… and while I was checking the perimeter–LIKE she told me to–he must have gotten lose. I came back in to find the woman dead–throat cut, blood every damn place, and James wandering around babbling and crying about how he thought he’d gotten away from all this and he just wanted to retire.

“Since he OBVIOUSLY knew too much at this point–and I already had two bodies to clean up–I killed him. Before you say ONE damn word about retrieval I will point out that NONE of my mission involved covering up an armed attack by two OBVIOUS MI6 agents. Even their damn outfits were all standard issue! English boots? Really?”

“I see… No, definitely not how it was supposed to play out,” he said. Sebastian heard a muttered “Idiots” and then Prissy Vest Man continued, “Will you be able to cover this up?”

“I THINK so? I should at least be able to buy us time and confusion. I have the bodies stashed someplace cold–”

“The flower case? Won’t that be noticed?”

“How the hell do you know that?!”

“The agents were reporting in on your whereabouts; it was supposed to be at least partially for your safety–I did warn you that the real Moriarty was very dangerous–and reported that you had encountered what appeared to be Moriarty, and walked into a flower shop.”

 _Fuck you all–they sure weren’t concerned about me._ “James was the manager.” Sebastian didn’t have to expend much effort to keep his voice terse. “I was looking around and chatting him up to try to verify his identity; he was showing off the place. One of the flower case fridges in the basement was more like a restaurant walk-in fridge–heavy sealed door that can lock. I stashed the bodies in there and cleaned up, but the rest of the shop staff will be in all day. I won’t be able to get back there until after dark.”

Prissy Vest Man made various “Hrmm”-ing noises and then asked, “Before… Before you had to kill the target… was he showing any signs of an allergic attack?”

“What?”

“Was he having any trouble breathing? Hives? Throat swelling shut?”

Sebastian focused on his anger, his betrayal, and how much he hated every one of those smug bastards and lied. “No… Well, only from crying–he was crying a lot? Babbling about getting away from it all.”

Prissy Vest Man sounded both sad and relieved, “Then it was not Moriarty, which leaves us in the same position of not knowing if Moriarty is actually dead.”

“Because… of what he was babbling?” Sebastian was exhausted and he hardly had to feign the “what the fuck?” tone in his voice.

“Moriarty was lethally allergic to that interrogation drug–it is the only absolute test for identity anyone could come up with.”

“Whatever.” Sebastian looked longingly at the bed and decided he needed a shower first. “I quit. You have my notice–” Prissy Vest Guy started to say something and Sebastian just talked over him, “I’m going to finish my damn job, cover up your mess for you just like I did in the military, and deal with this garbage. I will be reporting back in when I’m done AND I cool off. And I am ALSO making sure I hand off a drop dead account with some friends in case you decide to clean ME up too.” He hung up before the man could reply.

He took a shower, inspected his clothes– _yeah, blood and some bleach spatters; they’d have to go_ –and crawled into bed.

…

When he woke up, he had a moment’s confusion of the situation and then he buried his head back in the pillows. _Fuck me, fuck my life, fuck upper class bureaucratic assholes, do I have a “shit on me” sign on my back?_ He pulled himself together, took another shower and inspected the clothes from yesterday carefully: the under things were okay, but he couldn’t trust most of the outer wear not to have hidden blood on them or bleach stains–even the shoes; luckily, his jacket had been well away from everything. After careful consideration, he scrubbed the shoes off and wore them with today’s outfit: _I might get more blood on them, after all._ The suspect clothes he bagged up to throw out. The jacket got hung up to get dry-cleaned by the hotel.

He left the hotel, heading more or less to the flower shop area–everything still open and still busy. He meandered around shopping and dumped the clothes in separate trash cans along the way. He purchased some casual wear and otherwise did his best to look like he was doing exactly what he said he would do just in case there were any more observers. After a while, he called for a driver went into a small shop off State Street–back where you could drive–and walked quickly through and out the back to be picked up.

“Hey,” the young man said cheerfully.

“Hi, I need to go to a veterinarian’s office…”

The fellow eyed him in the rear view. Sebastian just grinned, “Visiting a new girlfriend.”

“Oh… Yeah, that’s cool. I have to be careful about fur and all.”

Sebastian just nodded and did his best to make the required small talk until they got there.

He walked in to find a petite brunette at the desk who looked up at him in some confusion. “I’m sorry, we can’t take any walk-ins today…”

“Lori?”

She blinked a few times, “Yes?”

“I’m Sebastian, I was–”

“OH! Oh, yes, the cousin they mentioned… Hang on.”

She called back and a few minutes later Blonde came out and thanked Lori. “Can you come upstairs?” She sounded a bit tired. “We were just arranging a few phone calls…”

“Sure,” he played along. She showed him back to the stairs and walked him up.

“You’re my distant cousin–everyone knows I have a ton of them–and there has been a death in the family. You’re one of the family that has still been in touch–quietly–despite my coming out as a lesbian.”

Sebastian nodded. “Got it. How is he?” he asked as she let him into the apartment, and then he trailed off. The recliner had been repurposed as a command chair: tables covered in papers were all in arms reach and Brown was trying to drag a laptop out James’ hands.

“You can bloody well stop to EAT!” she was snapping at him.

He was glaring at her.

Sebastian spoke up, “Our unit medic always used to say ‘If you aren’t well enough to fight me, you’re not well enough to disobey me’.” He looked at James and then nodded at Brown, “Looks like you need to eat.”

She took advantage of the distraction to put the laptop down out of reach. “We were ordering in… what do you want?”

“I’ll eat anything that doesn’t crawl off the plate.”

Blonde just sighed, “Great, does the military select for horrid diets or just train it into you?”

Brown smirked, “Both.”

Sebastian commented, “I’m partial to either steak and ale, or middle eastern.”

James spoke quietly–voice much improved, if still a bit rough–“As long as it goes with tea, I don’t care.” Both of the women moved out of the room. James waited until they were gone and then he looked at Sebastian. “How did it go?”

“Well, it wasn’t hard to stay angry,” he shrugged. “Prissy Vest Guy answered. He sounded apologetic; told me the two MI6 agents had reported that I went into a flower shop; I told him you were the manager and confirmed that I had stashed the bodies in the walk-in fridge; other than that, I stayed on script. He did say that the drug was the only absolute test of identity they could come up with, and a lot of ‘not how it was supposed to go’ noises… sounded like he was taking pills? I heard the bottle rattle.”

James smiled, “Either his headache pills or his antacid.” He spoke carefully and then sipped at his tea. “I’ve been quietly reactivating some old contacts–most of them don’t know me as Moriarty, of course. I’ll be in Dublin in two days.”

“You said you had some ideas for getting rid of the bodies?”

He nodded. “Mostly my friends will handle it–you just need to escort them to the bodies, and retrieve anything that you ‘should’ have gotten off them, like if they were dumb enough to have ID.”

Sebastian winced, “I hope they weren’t that stupid. You’ve set up a new email account for contact?”

James smirked and waved at the pad of paper; Sebastian looked it over: boring, cloud-based email and a password of ‘MagpiesTiger’.

“Magpie?” he arched an eyebrow

“Magpie,” James replied. “Any corvid, really, but Magpies are special.”

They stopped talking when the doctors came in, and shortly after that they had takeout delivered.

And a few hours after THAT, Sebastian was helping some Italian Mobsters–in Wisconsin, apparently–haul the bodies out of the fridge and into an unmarked van.

Madison Wisconsin was apparently a very cosmopolitan place…

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to break the story here, it WILL continue in "A Tiger In An English Garden"


End file.
